Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Turbo was standing outside the tiny farmhouse, happily drinking a glass of chai . Deeply
relieved, I pushed through the reeds and clasped the eccentric red-head by the hand.
'This is my friend, Osama,' he said, patting the gun-toting man cheerily on the back.
'Like Bin Laden !' he said with a wicked grin and a wink.
I didn't know what to say.
'Don't worry,' said Turbo, 'he's harmless. He's just a local hunter.'
'I grow crops out here, do some fishing,' the man named Osama explained, as he offered
me chai , his gun now over his shoulder. 'Sometimes I shoot crocodiles, too,' he added, as
nonchalantly as if he was talking about his morning commute.
'For fun?'
'No,' Osama replied. 'For handbags. And because one ate my father's leg.' He pointed
to the side wall of the shack, against which was propped an enormous skin, hardened by
salt. Next to it was a massive skull, shiny and white, bleached by the sun. 'Would you like
to see my pigeons?' he asked, with the enthusiasm of a child wanting to show off his new
toy.
I looked sidelong at Turbo, who only shrugged. 'Sure,' I said.
Inside the house, a stark room containing only a bed and a single chair, was a single
bookshelf - on which a family of pigeons had nested. 'Baby pigeons!' Osama announced.
'Nobody gets to see baby pigeons . . .'
'Is he mad?' I whispered at Turbo.
'Not really,' said Turbo. 'He just likes the solitude. But he won't get it tonight.'
'Why not?'
'This, Lev . . . this is your guesthouse!'
'Sorry there are no spare rooms,' said Osama, seemingly coming back to life. 'You'll
have to sleep on the trailer.'
Outside, a flat-topped wooden cart sat under a tree. 'It's okay,' I said, not wishing to
offend the madman's hospitality. 'I don't mind sleeping on the floor . . .'
Osama only gave one of his cryptic smiles. 'You don't want to do that.'
'Why not?'
Quickly, he snatched up a stick from his veranda and hooked up a shirt left drying on
one of the boulders just outside. Something fell from the collar onto the sand - and, with
the speed of an Olympic javelin, Osama speared a rogue scorpion right through its back.
As he held up the gruesome creature, it wriggled in the throes of death. With his forefinger
and thumb, he pulled off the tail and threw it into the bushes.
'Too many monsters.' He grinned and walked away, presumably to feed his pigeons the
remains.
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